


With Tongue as an Arrow Shot Out

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Brief Vomit Mention, Deception, Disguise, M/M, Resentment, Revenge, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Their tongue is as an arrow shot out; it speaketh deceit: one speaketh peaceably to his neighbour with his mouth, but in heart he layeth his wait. [Allene 9:8]
Relationships: Archombadin de Dzemael/Lebrassoir
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	With Tongue as an Arrow Shot Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/gifts).



> In our world the verse in the summary comes from Jeremiah; St. Allene seemed like the best match for that doom-and-prophecy energy.

Lebrassoir waits in the shadows, across the street from the house where Archombadin is passing the evening. It belongs to some minor Durendaire cousin or other, but Lebrassoir can't remember the man's name; he has never been invited to these little gatherings, as a vassal rather than a member of a High House—and a vassal whose own fortunes have suffered, at that. This gathering of Ishgard's most favored sons is not for him.

But for once he will make that exclusion work in his favor. For once he will have _some_ satisfaction from the miserable excuse for a lord whose whims rule his daily life.

Archombadin is the first to leave the little party; he is the only one enrolled at the Scholasticate and thus the only one who needs to worry about making it back to the dormitory before curfew. He walks slowly, a hand out as if he might need to catch himself against a wall at any moment. Appallingly drunk again, then, and still there will be no consequences from it. Why should there be, when he has both Ishgard's stone walls and the Dzemael family name to shield him?

Lebrassoir pulls on his mask and follows. Archombadin stumbles through the most shadowy, least populous parts of the Pillars, no doubt afraid of the scandal that would result if someone should recognize him in his current state. Fool. If he thinks his family reputation is the only thing that can come to harm here, he's going to be in for a very rude awakening.

When Archombadin makes a wobbling, uncertain turn into an alley, Lebrassoir sees his chance. He slips a draconian potion of strength from his pocket and downs it as quickly as he can, trying not to taste the foul stuff. It cost quite a pretty gil on the market, but he can feel the unnatural potency surging through his limbs and that will be worth every last coin.

He catches up to Archombadin where the light is dimmest, reaching out to grab the back of his coat and shove him into the nearest wall. Archombadin yelps, trying to push back, but with the potion's strength bolstering Lebrassoir's own it's simple to stop him.

"Let me go!" he demands, but his voice is reedy, with a note of fear in it that he never uses when addressing the help. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Lebrassoir leans into him, gets close enough to breathe against his nape. "You'll keep quiet if you know what's good for you, little lord," he says, affecting as thick a Brume accent as he can. He sounds to his own ears like a bad stage villain, but he doubts Archombadin will know the difference.

"Oh, Halone," Archombadin whispers. He struggles but he can't free himself, helpless for once in a state where money and name avail him nothing. When he stills, Lebrassoir can't help but laugh.

Not so damned proud now, is he? This is no substitute for real vengeance but it should certainly take the edge off for now. Lebrassoir grabs the back of Archbomadin's breeches and yanks them down, seams tearing loudly.

"No!" Archombadin says, vigor immediately renewed, trying again to buck him off. "No, don't—"

Lebrassoir pulls him back and slams him into the wall again, with such force that his head strikes the stone. "Told you to keep quiet," he snarls. "We're just going to have a little _fun_." Nearly the same words Archombadin used the first time he wanted Lebrassoir's mouth. Will he notice, drunk as he is? Would he care enough to remember even if he weren't?

The rush of fresh anger goes straight to Lebrassoir's cock and he shoves his trousers down. He pushes his cock between the cheeks of Archombadin's ass and can't get any purchase at first. His face goes hot with shame and he shoves Archombadin against the wall again, earning him a shudder and a wordless whimper. Spoiled brat really must be as drunk as he smells, already out of complaints. Lebrassoir tries again and this time strikes true, breaching Archombadin's defenses and burying his cock in hot flesh. It's so tight he can scarce move, far tighter than he imagined, and each thrust that takes him a bare ilm deeper makes Archombadin flinch again.

"Prissy, spoiled brat, never felt anything rougher than the sting of a good fuck." Damn him, acting like this is suffering. Acting like this is anything to cry about, given what he and his put people through constantly. Nobody matters to them. Nobody but their own is even real. Lebrassoir drives in harder, heedless of the friction and the discomfort, letting the anger carry him.

Archombadin turns his head, looking back over his shoulder, and for an instant Lebrassoir panics—but the hood and mask are enough of a disguise and no recognition shows on his face. There's blood, though, running down from a gash on his forehead. It's viciously satisfying, seeing him—for once—in pain that he can't hand off to someone else.

His ass is still almost too tight, but the sense of victory stiffens Lebrassoir's cock and resolve both. Archombadin is whispering, "Please, please," with no real power in it, hands braced against the wall but helpless against Lebrassoir's unnaturally augmented strength.

"A little filth looks good on you, my lord," Lebrassoir hisses. Playing the villain is more enjoyable than it has any right to be. He indulges himself just a bit more, giving voice to a fantasy that's seen him through more than one unpleasant night before now: "Mayhap next time I'll bring a few of me friends around to find you, take turns getting this tight hole broke in proper."

Archombadin sobs, shaking his head no, and the triumph of it, fleeting as it is, brings Lebrassoir to his peak, makes him spend in the body of the man he loathes most. He allows himself a few scant seconds to ride it out before he pulls out and steps back. He hopes Archombadin can feel his seed dripping out again. He hopes it feels disgusting.

"You bastard," Archombadin grits out, voice still shaking with emotion. He turns and takes a swing at Lebrassoir, clumsy and slow with drink. Lebrassoir leaps back and Archombadin stumbles, falling to his hands and knees on the cobbles. The jolt is too much for him in his pathetic state; he loses control of himself, vomiting bile and liquor onto the cobbles. Lebrassoir spares one more moment to engrave that image on his mind.

Then he flees. By the time Archombadin pulls himself together enough to return to the Scholasticate, Lebrassoir needs to already be there, presentable and calm as though he's been in the dormitory all evening. Archombadin will likely need help cleaning himself up and hiding any evidence of his indignity, and who better to provide, once again, than his faithful servant?

For the first time, perhaps the task will even be pleasant.


End file.
